What's in a Name?
by Dr. Platypus
Summary: A story of how Hogwarts—and its four founders—got their names. You may enjoy this story if you're willing to risk learning a little history.
1. The Circle of Cunning

Hrödwyn pulled off her woolen cloak. The weather was much warmer in Mercia than her native Northumberland, and even that was preferable to distant Hogges Maed, where she, her husband, and her young daughter had lived the past year. There, snow was still thick on the ground. Here, springtime had arrived. For a minute, she let the gentle breeze blow through her long, dark hair. She strode down the muddy path that would lead her, she had been told, to her destination.

"Have you ever heard of Slegth-hring?" she had asked a Muggle peasant in the market at Lindon. He gasped and made the sign of the cross.

"Aye, missus, but surely ye're not lookin' fer the Circle o' Cunning?" It didn't take a skilled Legilimens to detect his fear—indeed his revulsion—at the thought.

"In fact I am," Hrödwyn said. She pulled up to her full impressive height and bore into the man with her deep, dark eyes. Most people thought Hrödwyn was rather good looking, but she could also be quite intimidating when she wanted to be.

"'Tis out on the fen," the peasant offered. "Take the cowpath north an' turn left at the first fork. There's nothin' out there but a burned out keep, mind," he shuddered, "but people say that's where ye'll find 'em."

"Thank you," she said.

"But, missus, I wouldn't be caught out there after dark if I were ye."

Despite the man's obvious misgivings, his directions proved accurate. An hour later, Hrödwyn had found the left fork, trudged into the fen, and at last spied a small stone keep ahead of her. Though certainly old and a bit run-down, and there was no sign of the castle that must have once surrounded it, the ancient tower was far from the burned-out ruin the peasant had described.

_There's a fine trick_, Hrödwyn thought. _He's given the Muggles something to see that isn't quite the truth. I'll have to ask him how he did it_.

It was mid-day, but the clearing she had discovered was largely shaded by the tangle of woods all around. Hrödwyn heard the call of birds, the wind rustling through the branches, and the hiss of snakes all around her.

Between her and the keep, a teenaged boy sat on a tree stump. He eyed her suspiciously as he deftly pulled a short length of wood from a leather strap at his waist. Hrödwyn's wand was close at hand beneath her cloak, but she chose not to draw.

"Good day, young sir," she said. She was now close enough to see that the boy had been gathering roots and placing them in a bag at his shoulder. He stood and answered her—but in a language she couldn't quite make out. Was it Norse, or simply a dialect of English that somehow evaded her?

"_Loqueris linguam Latinam_?" she asked.

"'Course I speaking Latin," he answered, and they continued in that tongue.

"I'm looking for a Castilian named Salaçar. Is that where he lives?" She indicated the keep.

"And if it am?" the boy said. He didn't seem to be a bodyguard, but Hrödwyn thought he would make a good one.

"Then I should like to tell him that I bring news from an old friend: Godric of Wessex."

The boy shrugged noncommittally. Hrödwyn resumed her stroll down the path.

Three younger children rounded the corner of the stone tower. They also had wands in their hands. Under the direction of an older girl, perhaps seventeen or eighteen, the youngsters were practicing a variety of simple charms. They took turns attempting to hover a good-sized rock, but so far were merely pushing it forward. Apparently, they had been following it around the keep for some time.

They stopped when they noticed Hrödwyn's approach. The tall, dark woman nodded in their direction and proceeded without a word.

She knocked at the sturdy oaken door. Of its own, it opened before her.

Inside was a large rectangular room crammed full of tables, bookshelves, and cabinets. Doors at the back led, no doubt, to storage rooms, a kitchen, and perhaps the private quarters of the man Hrödwyn had come to see. Two rickety ladders on either end of the room led to the upper level.

Salaçar was a balding man with a fair bit of white in his long, tapering beard—although Hrödwyn had been led to believe he was only a few years older than Godric, who was still an energetic lion of a man. He was not what anyone would call attractive. In fact, something about his face seemed vaguely simian.

As Hrödwyn entered, he had just closed the cover of the dusty tome he had been reading. He stood and offered a slight bow—enough to demonstrate his manners, not enough to reveal what he really thought of her intrusion upon his day.

She decided to address him in English. "Good day, milord. Are you Señor de Salaçar of Slegth-hring?" she asked.

"I am Salaçar," he answered. He gestured for his guest to take a seat at his table. "And the children you no doubt met on your way here are my Circle of Cunning. Or, part of it—two of my older pupils are off studying giants in Cornwall. And you are…?"

"Hrödwyn, milord, sometimes called Hrödwyn aet Hraefn-clawu. I'm pleased to meet you," she said. "I bring greetings from our mutual friend, Godric of Wessex."

"How is Godric these days?" he asked. "I haven't seen him since Poictiers, ten years ago. I heard he's gathered a band of apprentices since then, much as I have."

"You've heard correctly, Señor. In fact, that is the reason for my visit."

"Yes?"

"Godric dreams about far more than apprenticing a handful of children. He wants to establish a proper school, where those with magical talents can be given a proper, structured education. To that end, he has recruited two others who have been teaching the wizarding children in our respective lands—I in Northumberland and another witch in Ireland."

"But that is our way," Salaçar interrupted. "We witches and wizards have always schooled our young ones through apprenticeship."

"It always _has been_ our way, Señor. Times change, and we must change with them. I can't help but notice that your tower is in need of repair. No doubt you spend so much time preparing lessons, journeying with students, and handling the day-to-day details of leading your Circle of Cunning that you don't have time to perform more than the most necessary maintenance on it. I suffer the same constraints at Hraefn-clawu, my husband's estate, where I conduct my classes."

"I will admit, I don't have as much time for my own studies as I would like."

"Nor I," Hrödwyn said. "But together we could share the burden. You know as well as I there's never been a better duelist than Godric of Wessex—"

"The Count of Poictiers used to call him the Golden Griffin," Salaçar mused.

"A name he still bears with pride. And I daresay, it would be positively criminal for me to try to teach my students defensive magic when they could learn from a true master. And with colleagues alongside me, sharing the teaching burden, I look forward to devoting more of my time to my own preferred areas of expertise."

Salaçar steepled his spindly fingers as he considered what Hrödwyn had said.

"This school of yours, does it already exist or is it still just a flight of fancy in Godric's head?"

"I should say it _mostly_ exists," Hrödwyn confessed. "We've found a good location on which to build it, and of course all of us are donating our spell books and other equipment."

"But?"

"Well, to be honest, we've run into a bit of a snag."

"…And I expect now you're going to say this was another reason my dear friend Godric has sent for me?"

Hrödwyn did not blush, but she feared her expression gave herself away even so.

* * *

><p>• The earliest attestation of the name Rowena refers to the daughter of Hengist, who established an Anglo-Saxon kingdom in Kent in the fifth century. Unfortunately, this attestation only comes from the mid-1100s, when Geoffrey of Monmouth renders the name as Ronwen or Renwein. In Middle English Arthurian literature, it is spelled Rouwenne, Rouuenne, Rouwen, Reowen, Rowenne, and Rowen. There is no evidence the name was ever used in the period of the Founders. Hröðwyn is a scholarly reconstruction of a hypothetical Old English form, which is the best one can hope for.<p>

• "Æt Hræfn-clawu" is Old English for "at Raven-claw." Proper surnames, family names passed from generation to generation, were unknown in tenth-century Britain. Instead, people had personal bynames based on their occupation (e.g., Potter, Granger [=farmer]), parentage (MacMillan, Parkinson), location (e.g., Longbottom, viz., of a river valley), or personal traits (e.g., Weasley [=like a weasel], Malfoy [=bad faith]). Ravens are associated with wisdom and perception in Germanic folklore.

• Assuming the Count of Poictiers (Poitiers in southern France) was classically educated, his Old French version of "Golden Griffin" might have been Gryphon d'Or. Spelling was not standardized, however, until centuries later. After 1066, French was the language of England's ruling class.

• Salaçar is a Basque surname well attested in tenth-century Castile (central Spain). Since it is a surname, not a given name, Salaçar's actual given name is unknown.

• Slegth-hring is a hypothetical Old English expression meaning circle (_hring_) of cunning or craftiness (_sleght_, ultimately from Old Norse _slægþ_). After 1066, the Middle English form would be Sleythe-ring. The Slegth/Sleythe element is found in the English surname Sleith, Sleeth, etc., first attested in Lincolnshire, part of what was (in the tenth century) the Kingdom of Mercia.

• Hogges Mǽd means "Hog's Meadow," or a grassy area where hogs are kept. Such a meadow might be sown with barley, rye, clover, or root crops. In medieval times, swine were allowed to forage for food in a semi-wild state, then were rounded up and slaughtered in the fall.


	2. Hog's Meadow

"As you can see, Salaçar," Hrödwyn commented, "the location is perfect. The mountains keep this valley almost completely isolated from the Muggle world. Oh, an overly inquisitive sort might follow the riverbank to the lake, but it's not very likely. The villagers downstream fear the lake is haunted. Godric suspects there may be merpeople living in it.

"I see," Salaçar pondered. Summer had finally come—even to the Kingdom of Alba. Salaçar had sent his pupils home to help their families with summer chores and traveled north to the remote valley his springtime guest had indicated via owl messenger a week after her unexpected visit.

He and his raven-haired escort had spent the better part of the day hiking through the woods around the lake shore from Hogges Maed. The day was cloudy, and the Castilian shivered in the cool northern breeze. Still, he couldn't help but appreciate the benefits of this remote valley.

"That prominent hill over there would make a good spot to build," he said. "It gives a commanding view not only of the lake but of the entire valley."

"That is Godric's plan exactly," Hrödwyn said.

"And if the mountains are limestone, I'll bet there are caves underneath that would be ready-made for storage cellars, kitchens, dungeons…any number of things."

"So, you can see why we're frustrated," Hrödwyn sighed.

"This Hengist fellow isn't cooperating?"

"He claims the entire valley for himself—and as no one else has apparently ever lived here, it's a hard claim to dispute. A few other families have moved here over the past few years, but Hengist only sells them land he's willing to part with. If you ask me, he's still a bit jumpy from the war."

"What do you mean?"

"That's why he came here," Hrödwyn explained. "A dozen or so years ago the Kingdom of Alba captured all the territory between the Tweed and the Forth. That included the village where Hengist lived."

"I don't follow," Salaçar said. "Then why did he move further into Alban country?"

"Oh, it wasn't the army that drove him off; it was his fellow villagers! They knew he was a wizard, and they wondered why he didn't do anything to stop the invaders."

"That's absurd!" Salaçar scoffed. "What can one wizard do against an army?"

"Try explaining that to a village full of Muggles whose farms and houses have been burned, whose sons have died, and whose daughters have been enslaved.

"Hengist decided to find the most remote place he could and start over. He finds it hard to trust anyone, it seems—even fellow wizards. He gathered his family and came here. Now he herds swine, keeps a good-sized farm, and plays host to any of our kind who pass through 'his' valley."

"And he won't sell Godric any land?"

"He'll rent pasture land, or even sell it if it suits him. But he hunts game in the woods and forages his swine there. And I suspect he would like to build a fort on that hill for himself some day."

"He needs a bit of persuading."

"We were hoping you would have some ideas."

They strolled along the lake shore toward the tiny hamlet of Hogges Maed. The largest structure was Hengist's own large stone house with its barns and animal pens huddled around it. Four other cottages with their outbuildings flanked the dirt path that led to Hengist's door. Two of these belonged to Hengist's sons, Oswy and Wulfric. One was the home of Domnall the blacksmith. At the fourth house a tall, broad-shouldered wizard with long blond hair like a lion's mane stood, grinning ear to ear.

"Salaçar!" he called, striding forward to give the Castilian a fierce bear hug. "It's been too long! Come in, come in!"

"It's good to see you, Godric," Salaçar said. "You look well. You've only just arrived?"

"I flew in this afternoon. I've been visiting with the others. Have you met Hrödwyn's husband, Cynefrid? Or their daughter, Helena?" Godric ushered his friend into the house. Hrödwyn's husband was not as tall as his wife, nor as good looking, but he had a sparkle in his eye that suggested keen intelligence. He clasped the Castilian's hand.

"You and your daughter were attending to chores when I arrived this morning. Exaxu de Salaçar, at your service."

"Welcome to my home, Ess…Esh…"

"Just call me Salaçar, milord. I take no offense that you English have such a difficult time with my given name."

Helena Cynefrid's daughter, no more than ten years old, was her mother in miniature. She ran to Hrödwyn as soon as she stepped inside as if she were a noblewoman's favored attendant.

Salaçar turned back to Godric. "I'm sorry, friend. Did I hear you correctly that you _flew_ in this afternoon?"

Godric grinned. Hrödwyn scoffed, "You'll never believe what he bought in London last summer."

The blond-haired wizard reached around to retrieve an object that had been leaning against the wall. It was a broom.

"They're all the rage in Saxony."

"So I've heard," Salaçar said. "I didn't realize they could hold the weight of a grown man."

"They do," Godric said, "with a bit of encouragement. I can see someone making a few simple improvements in the charms, though. Broom-flying is faster than a horse and it isn't as uncomfortable as Apparating. I daresay it won't be long until everyone is doing it."

"We'll see, Godric." The voice came from beside the hearth, where a stout red-haired and rosy-cheeked woman was stirring an iron pot.

"Where are my manners?" Godric said. "I'd forgotten you hadn't met Helga. Helga, quit being a hermit and come meet my friend Salaçar. Supper will surely keep for that long."

The woman added a few more cloves to her stew, wiped her hands on her apron, and joined the others, who were now taking their seats at Cynefrid's table.

"Pleased to meet you, Salaçar. I'm Helga, as Godric told you—and remember, Godric, I'm only a half-hermit."

Salaçar looked quizzically at his friend.

"'Half-hermit' is her nickname," Godric explained. "Because she'd rather be busy alone in the kitchen than visiting at the table."

"I don't see why anyone would waste their time chatting when there's work to be done," Helga said. "But Godric's right. Everybody in my valley back home in Ireland has called me 'Helga Hálfrpapa' since I was a little girl. Although in truth I'm really no more than one-quarter hermit," she winked.

"I would say some of her apprentices are closer to three-quarters," Hrödwyn said. "But I must confess, I've never seen anyone get as much good hard work out of a student as you do, Helga."

"Aye," Helga said, "children that don't want to work have no business coming to me for their learning."

Helga once more addressed the Castilian. "Godric has told us you're a right fine teacher, Salaçar. Do you think you'll join us in our little project?"

"It is a tempting proposal, I must admit," he answered. "Provided, of course, this Hengist fellow can be made to see reason. And you say he won't sell to you at all, Godric?"

Godric fumed. "He'll rent us the pasture behind his swine-house for a Galleon a year. Hrödwyn, Helga, and I have already set up some huts back there, but we need our own land. Hengist says he wants five hundred Galleons for the hill beside the lake and all the land around it. He knows we don't have that kind of gold. And who would pay that much for a patch of woodland, anyway? I could build a ruddy castle with that much gold."

"In that case," Salaçar suggested, as if the idea had never occurred to anyone else, "we'll simply have to persuade him to accept a lower offer."

* * *

><p>• The Kingdom of Alba was established in what is today Scotland by Gaelic invaders from Ireland. In AD 970, Alba annexed the northern portion of Northumberland.<p>

• Hengist and Godric are both well attested Old English names.

• Helena is the Latin form of Greek Helenê, the fabled Helen of Troy. I don't know if this name is attested for tenth-century England, but some twentieth-century wizards seem to have a fondness for names drawn from classical antiquity (e.g., Minerva, Pomona, Dedalus, Lucius, etc.).

• Exaxu is a medieval Basque name, chosen mainly because it sounds nothing like any language spoken in the British Isles at this time.

• Helga is a well attested Old Norse name. There were several Norse settlements in medieval Ireland, the most important of which was centered on Dublin. _Papi_ (feminine, _papa_) is Old Norse for a monk or hermit in the Irish tradition. "Hálfrpapa" is as close as I can get to a plausible etymology for "Hufflepuff."


	3. The Sorting Gemot

Salaçar spent the next several weeks away from Hogges Maed, though he wouldn't discuss where he went or what he did. Upon his return, however, he wandered for days in the woods by himself, taking only his wand and a small canvas sack he had brought back from his travels. The hamlet-folk weeded their gardens, tended to their animals, and generally tried to pay no mind to the four teaching wizards who had made Hogges Maed their home.

In early August, a new family of settlers arrived, an East Anglian witch who had been driven from her Muggle village after an outbreak of the ague, with her husband and three young children. Hengist gladly welcomed them into his home, which often served as a guesthouse for weary travelers, though he became cool to the husband when he learned the man was a Muggle himself. Somewhat reluctantly, he agreed to sell them a small farm plot for something like a reasonable price.

By the middle of August students had begun to arrive at Hogges Maed in search of their teachers. All summer long, owls had flown to every corner of the British Isles alerting two dozen wizard children that their classes would resume as soon after September 1 as everyone could arrive.

Murchad, a bright-eyed Gael from Dubhlinn, was the first of Helga's Hálfrpapar to arrive, along with his little sister Mór. A week later Horsa and Caedmon, two older boys from Northumberland, showed up looking for Hrödwyn. She no longer taught at Hraefn-clawu hall, but her pupils still proudly called themselves by the name of their former seat of learning. On the first of September, half a dozen boys and girls, apprentices to either Godric, Helga, Hrödwyn, or Salaçar, wandered into the hamlet like a tiny band of pilgrims. Two days later, most of Salaçar's Slegth-hring creaked into Hogges Maed in an oxcart weighted down with the last of their teacher's books and supplies from Mercia.

As soon as students arrived, their teachers began to give them lessons or simple projects to let them practice their magic—or at least to keep them busy. The older students finished the protective charms around the makeshift school grounds. Those younger or less accomplished studied herbs by tending to the vegetable gardens.

Most of the students had arrived by the middle of September, although a few would stay home until after the harvest. On Saint Ninian's Day there was quite a commotion when Aelfred aet Lange-bythme, one of Godric's most precocious Gryphons-d'Or, arrived in the skies above Hogges Maed on a broomstick! After that, no one was in a mood to study for the rest of the day. The older boys and girls prevailed upon Aelfred to give them a turn on this new magical artifact that most of them had never seen before.

One evening in late September Godric, Hrödwyn, Salaçar, and Helga held their weekly _gemot_, or meeting, at Cynefrid's table to discuss how their students were progressing. This night, however, the discussion turned serious as Godric raised a thorny issue the four teachers had to address. Herdís, the oldest daughter of Gudrún the East Anglian witch, was old enough to begin studying magic. Her mother had taught her a few simple charms at home, but was elated to discover not one but four experienced teachers of magic in her family's new home.

Herdís had been joining along with the other ten- and eleven-year-old children in their exercises, but none of the four teachers had officially agreed to take her on as an apprentice.

"What do you think?" Godric said after all four teachers shared what they had observed of Herdís's progress. "Where will she thrive? Who can help her most?"

"She's a fast learner," Hrödwyn offered. "She's coming along quite well with her Latin. I can't say I would object to taking her on."

"But you aren't sure, are you, Hrödwyn?"

The dark-haired witch shrugged. "She can use her mind because she has to. I'm not convinced she loves learning. She's not terribly inquisitive."

"With all due respect, Godric," Salaçar said. "I prefer not to have the girl in my Slegth-hring…for personal reasons."

Godric eyed his old friend but chose not to comment. Instead, he said, "She tries her best, even if it means risking failure or ridicule. I think you all know I admire that kind of courage. She's got a real fire in her, that's for sure."

"You make a strong case, Godric," Helga said. "If you're willing to take her, I won't object."

"But?"

Helga sighed. "Well, it's just that she's been through so much turmoil this year—losing her home, hearing all those terrible things the Muggles said about her mother. She's in a sensitive state and, if I may speak frankly, Godric, you are a bit…intimidating."

"Intimidating?"

"Oh, don't tell me you don't notice how people give you space as you walk among them. You're a head taller than practically everyone else in Hogges Maed. And when you strap on that sword…"

"That sword was a gift from the Count of Poictiers…"

"And it reinforces the legend that you have grown into. You're the famous Godric Gryphon-d'Or, the Golden Griffin. You're the greatest duelist of our age, and if your wand ever fails you, your sword will see you through. Now, I don't begrudge any of that, Godric. I admire your courage as much as your gallantry, but try to imagine what you're like to a ten-year-old girl, uprooted from everything she knows, who barely speaks your language.

"Let me take care of her, Godric. She's a kind-hearted little girl, and hard-working to a fault. She'll make a fine Hálfrpapa."

The four of them sat silently. At last, Hrödwyn said, "Are we going to have these discussions about every new student who comes our way?"

"I don't see a way around it," Godric said. "We're all partial to students with different strengths—and needs," he nodded to Helga. "But we'll figure out a way to get it right. Now, if you'll excuse me, it's getting late." And with that the Golden Griffin rose from the table, donned his black, pointed hat, and departed.

* * *

><p>• "The ague" is malaria, which was chronic in low-lying areas of medieval Europe, including southern and eastern England.<p>

• Saint Ninian was a British missionary-bishop. His feast day is September 16.

• "Æt Lange-byþme" is a locative byname meaning "at (the) long bottom (of a valley)."

• East Anglia and Yorkshire were major centers of Norse population in early medieval England.


	4. Hog Warts

Summer drifted into autumn. Almost all of the expected students had arrived, although a few of those who came earliest asked leave to return home for a week or so to help their families bring in the harvest. Cynefrid also left Hogges Maed to supervise the harvest at Hraefn-clawu.

Despite the comings and goings, something like a routine was finally beginning to develop. Each teacher concentrated on the subjects where they most excelled. Godric focused mainly on defensive magic and Dark creatures, although he could also be coaxed into sharing some of his extensive knowledge of Muggles and their ways. Helga schooled everyone about magical plants and animals, and in the afternoons took aside several older students to teach them about Norse rune-magic.

Hrödwyn taught spellwork of every kind. She also insisted in grounding her students in the history of magic. Before breakfast every morning she tutored everyone who needed it to get them to an appropriate level in their Latin. For his part, Salaçar was most at home with potion-making, although he also dabbled in astronomy and arithmancy, and helped Hrödwyn with the Latin tutoring and Helga with her gardens.

The only thing missing, it seemed, was a proper facility in which to teach. As the days grew shorter and colder, the huts the teachers had built that summer seemed more and more inadequate. No matter how many times Hrödwyn had her star pupils re-apply warming charms, there was always a damp, bitter draft.

The morning of the first frost, Salaçar pulled on his thick green cloak and trudged to his potions laboratory with a sly grin on his face.

A week later, it came time for Hengist to slaughter his hogs. The man and his sons had only just gone out to gather the animals that had been foraging in the woods when they realized something was wrong. At first Hengist assumed a single sow had taken sick, but then his son Oswy found a boar with the same symptoms. The final straw came when his other son, Wulfric, examined some of the roots the swine had been eating.

Hengist grabbed Wulfric by the collar of his tunic and stormed out of the woods, across the meadow, into the hamlet, and through his pasture to the cluster of huts the teachers had built. His wand was in his hand.

Godric had been guiding the younger students through basic dueling techniques when he saw his landlord approach, his younger son still being dragged along by his collar. Salaçar, who had stepped outside to empty a spoiled cauldron of potion, smiled.

"I'll handle this, Godric," he said. "Alone, if you don't mind."

"As you wish, Salaçar," he puzzled. He shepherded his students inside.

The Castilian walked forward, his cloak pulled back to put his wand in easy reach. As he sized up the approaching wizard, he doubted he would need it.

"This is the thanks I get!" Hengist stormed. "All I've done, puttin' up with the lot o' ye for better'n a year now…and now ye do _this_?"

"I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage, Hengist. What, precisely are we supposed to have done?"

"Look a' him!" He thrust Wulfric forward and pointed at his face with his wand—a gesture that was less than encouraging to Wulfric! But Salaçar did see what Hengist was talking about. Underneath Wulfric's nose and all around his mouth, tiny warts were blossoming so fast the Castilian could nearly see them grow before his eyes.

"How terrible," Salaçar said, emotionlessly. "Would you like me to whip up a wart-removing potion for him?"

"It's no' him!" Hengist continued. "It's me herd! Half o' me splinchin' herd looks like this! An' here's why." Only then did Salaçar notice that in Wulfric's hand was a pale, bulbous, half-eaten root. At his father's prodding, he held it up for the Castilian to see.

"Hengist, you really should teach your children to wash their food before they eat it."

"He din't eat it! All he did was sniff it—and look a' him. Now, me herd, oh, they et their fill o' this stuff. And now there's warts all over 'em from tail to snout!

"What a tragedy," Salaçar said, much as he might have observed that water is wet.

"I can't butcher hogs wha' look like this, and God knows I can't sell 'em!"

"Yes, it's a shame they got into something they shouldn't have—a patch of Verruca Turnips by the look of it. Nasty plants, really. They'll grow up overnight once it turns cold enough. But really, Hengist, there's no need to make unfounded accusations."

"Ye'll make this right! Ye'll make this right or I'll—"

"Of course we will. It's the least we can do for such a kind, longsuffering landlord—though this is not, you understand, an admission of guilt. The simple fact is we like you, Hengist, and it grieves me to see you in such terrible straits."

"Just see that I get what's comin' to me," Hengist spat.

"It is my most fervent desire," Salaçar said. "I'll be happy to make you a batch…in fact, several batches, I expect, of wart-removing potion. Completely free of charge."

"That's more like it."

"It's a pity about the forest. Verruca Turnips are worse than weeds, you know. It could take years before it's safe to let your swine forage there again."

"Years?"

"Possibly decades. It's actually rather hard to say. It can be a very…vigorous…infestation."

The color in Hengist's face was quickly darkening from pink to deep magenta.

"But have no fear: the wart-removing potion will definitely take care of your swine—this year. I'll get my best students working on it right away.

And as I think of it, Hengist, there may be another way we can help you out. Now that the forest is worthless to you, I believe I might convince my colleagues that we should buy it from you—take it off your hands. Between the four of us I'm sure we have enough gold to make you a very _reasonable_ offer."

As soon as Hengist stalked away Salaçar explained things to Godric—at least to the extent he deemed prudent. Godric then shared the news with Hrödwyn and Helga, and at supper that night he announced to the students that they would soon be taking classes in a proper schoolhouse.

At Helga's insistence, Godric offered Hengist his prized broomstick as a peace-offering. He even promised to bring him two more for his sons the next time he traveled to London.

On Friday, everyone hiked into the forest to survey the site. Godric spoke eloquently about the great hall he imagined would one day rise beside the lake as a place where all the wizarding children of the land could be schooled in witchcraft and wizardry.

"But what shall we call it?" Hrödwyn asked later that night as, once again, they gathered at the table and reflected on the day's work. "I've noticed we still all talk mostly about our own bands of students—Gryphons-d'Or, Slegth-hring, Hraefn-clawu, Hálfrpapar. But we're becoming something bigger. We need a name that reflects that fact—a name that all of us can own."

"Hear, hear," Helga said. "You're the best with words, Hrödwyn. What do you suggest?"

"_Verrucae porcinae_," Salaçar said, grinning.

Hrödwyn grimaced. "You can't be serious, Salaçar!"

"He has a point," Godric chuckled. "Where would we be without them?"

"I suppose," Hrödwyn sniffed. "But can we at least name it in English? I don't think I could keep a straight face saying that in Latin for the rest of my life."

"Splendid idea, Hrödwyn," Helga said.

"Then it seems we're in agreement." Godric raised his goblet. "To Hogg Wearta!"

"To Hog Warts," they shouted.


End file.
